


Last Syllable of Recorded Time

by radculas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dystopia, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Heavy Angst, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Mad Max Series (Movies), M/M, POV John Watson, Protective Sherlock, Sad Ending, Slavery, Tragedy, Violence, everyone is slightly out of character because it's a post-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radculas/pseuds/radculas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic world where starvation reek and people are enslaved, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle to make their way back to their homeland.<br/>They should not have held hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely inspired by several dystopian and post apocalyptic films such as 28 Days Later, Mad Max, and Interstellar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dust took over and all of the sudden, there was nothing.  
> In a post-apocalyptic world where starvation reek and people enslaved, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle to make their way home to England.  
> They should not have held hope.

Dust took over and all of the sudden, there was nothing.

I’ve now become one of the few people to even remember the day it happened. It feels like a lifetime ago. Your priorities were set straight and suddenly no one gave a damn about decency.

“Down you go, Runt.” A snarl and saliva drizzled down. Hot breath and firm hands. Any human interaction was blissful these days but not this.

“Come on, Runt, we got a jug of water on your head! Die already!”

People never stop shouting at me. Some words, I understood. Others, I have no idea. We all spoke different languages.

_Please, Lords, let me live._

I lashed out. My thumb jabbed into the man’s eye sockets. The snarl became a howl. More saliva and blood drizzled down on me. I pushed him away and got to my feet. Rather than leaving my opponent blind and writhing helplessly in pain, I decided it was more merciful to finish him off. I stepped hard on the man’s head with the heel of his boots. There was a crack. Broken neck. Instant death.

Cheers erupted.  
Several sets of hands grabbed me and dragged me back into my shed. They handed me a sack full of stale food before locking the door.

…

When I hear the echo of heavy footsteps from the corridor, I know that it is Tuesday. Tuesday means I can go outside and interact with people.

Every week, they hold a Game for the Lords.  No one really knows how the legend came to be. It certainly wasn’t around when I was a kid. We all stopped caring except for the basic things. Human blood. The sacrifices.

Maybe, just maybe, with enough sacrifices, it will start raining again. In my childhood, rain was considered a nuisance in my home country. It used to be called England. Who knows what it’s called now. Everything’s shriveled up to sand and dust.

The Game is the only thing that makes people stir excitedly among the dust.   
Five matches, two at a time, at least one will always die. Mites are allowed to bet on the Competitors. Their winnings are distributed by the Masters. They can be quite generous during the Game.  

The average life span of a Competitor is two months at best. I’ve survived for something like three years. Mites say that the day I die, there will be a mighty shower.  
But I want to live. I fight for the stale bread and gunk.

I am ushered down the dark corridor and out into the sunlight. I squint up at the sky and try to adjust my eyes to the light before the Game begins. I hear a thunderous roar from the crowd and some are even chanting my name, Runt, Runt, Runt…

I am pushed towards the pit. My feet automatically comes to a halt. I’ve never seen a man of that size before. He was muscular and enormous. It’s death. I know it.  
I want to live a bit more. I try to break away from the guards’ arms but they tug at my shackles and usher me towards the center stage. I yell something incomprehensible. Maybe if I yell enough, the Lords might hear me.

My thoughts are betrayed when a guard points a gun at my head.

I want to swear but I’m afraid that the Lords might hear me so I swallow and take a step forward. Their wish is my command. One of the Masters shouted my name and there was another wave of roar from the crowd. They’re all dressed in rags and muck but they look alive. Every week, this is a day of death for me but for the rest, it is a day to live for.

The gunshot went and the opponent charged after me. I knew I will be taken immediately off my feet if I received it properly. I skittered away pathetically. Boos.

If I kept running away, the Masters will shoot me at the spot. I needed to face my opponent properly. I lashed out a low kick. The opponent dodged and grabbed my ankle. I was dragged directly under him. He stomped hard on my chest twice like squishing a bug.

I wheezed but somehow managed to avert the third stomp by rolling away. I couldn’t stand up. My knee was stiff. I have a limp. That is why people call me Runt instead of my real name. I doubt they even know what my name is.

The big guy chased after me. I rolled on my back and kicked my good leg out. It caught the crotch area. He collapsed to his knees. I sprung up and delivered a head butt.

The opponent groaned and for a second I thought I got him. Stupid thought.  
A hand grabbed my throat and pushed me against the wall. I couldn’t breathe.

_Please, Lords, let me live._

All of the sudden there was a gunshot and the cheering ceased immediately. The grip on my neck loosened and I was dropped to the floor. I gagged and wondered what had just happened. I opened my eyes to see a tall man standing in the center of the pit with a gun pointed up toward the Lords.  
I couldn’t see his face clearly. It was hidden behind a hood and a dark scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face.

“What is this nonsense?” A low voice demanded menacingly. “Am I to believe that this is a proper Game?”

There was a stir in the Master seats.

“Please, Sir,” one of them called out. “We meant no disrespect.” The tall man turned his head to glare at the speaker.

“It’s pathetic. It’s boring. Look at him, he can’t even walk properly.” He gestured at me. “I declare all bets off. Clear them out immediately and rematch with equally leveled Competitors.” 

“But,” my opponent spoke out. “I was winning.”

There was a sharp crack and a soft _sphut_. My opponent tumbled to the ground with a hole in his forehead.

“Yes, right away, Reichenbach.” Someone said nervously and the guards came to take me away.

I won in the rematch, but they didn’t give me my reward.

…

There was an explosion that night. I heard shouts and screams. I wanted to go outside and check what was going on but the door was locked and the window too high up beyond my reach. I smelled smoke. I wondered if I will die in here instead of under the witness of the Lords.

Suddenly there was a clunk and my door swung open. Smoke wafted through. I saw a hazy silhouette looming at the threshold. I edged toward it cautiously.

“Come with me.” A voice said. I followed the tail of Reichenbach’s cloak without hesitation.  I’ve never walked down the corridor without my shackles on. Everyone was running the opposite direction with a gun in their hand. Some guards were lying on the floor. They seemed dead or was bleeding badly.

I had so many questions. Where were we going? What happened? Where is my food?  
But you are not allowed to speak to a Master unless you are given permission, and obviously, Reichenbach was a Master. You could tell by the state of his skin. Pale, smooth, and healthy.

We went down several flight of stairs and the smoke got thinner. I was led to a vast space. It took me a while to realize I was outside. Reichenbach grabbed my shoulder and led me through the darkness. My heart was beating so fast. I can’t remember the last time I walked outside without the shackles.

We came to a high barbed wire fence. I felt dread. I didn’t want to climb that high. I was so hungry. Reichenbach grunted and pushed my head so that I was kneeling. Was he going to shoot me in the head here? Instead, I found a gaping hole at the bottom of the fence, big enough for me to crawl through.

Reichenbach kicked me in the back.  
I wriggled through.

There was a patch of dirt on the other side! I grinned and patted the damp ground. Then, I placed my cheek against the ground and closed my eyes. It was cool and comforting.  
Before I could scoop some and put it in my mouth, a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me roughly to my feet.

Reichenbach hissed some abuse at me and dragged me away from the burning ruins of what was my home for the past three years.

We weaved through the shadows of old disheveled ruins silently until I noticed a distant rumble growing. We turned the corner to find a fine black cargo van parked in the shadow.  I sputtered and tried hard not to exclaim out of excitement. I was ushered to climb into the passenger seat of the car. I breathed in slowly. It reminded me of my teens when my sister and I had a car of our own. We taught ourselves how to drive.

Reichenbach climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled down his hood and scarf. He was younger than I thought and had an elegant, curly hair. His sharp, pale blue eyes shifted to my direction. I remembered I wasn’t supposed to stare at a Master. I turned away in a hurry and noticed there were other people sitting in the back seat. Three people, all women. They stared back at me with equal fear in their eyes.

“Name?” The low voice said. Unsure of who he was addressing, I kept my mouth closed. I didn’t want to be rude. Reichenbach rolled his eyes. “Speak, Runt, what’s your name?”

“John Watson.” I croaked. Reichenbach’s pale blue eyes widened slightly.

“You’re English?”

I nodded.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and we are going home.” He said and the van rolled out into the free lands.

…

Reichenbach -or Sherlock as he told me to call him- gave me permission to speak to him whenever I wanted. He was the youngest and the newest Master of the clan. It was a surreal feeling to be in a van with a Master and three women. Women were rare these days.

“I was sold off into to the clan by smugglers. Free floaters like you get sold as Competitors, but I was sold for my knowledge and intellect.” Sherlock explained.

I asked him how he knew I was a free floater. He explained my excited reaction to the cargo van, meaning that I was born pre-dust. He surmised that I must have traveled around with a car myself, from the way I gazed out through the back mirror and the gas tank. Only captured men became Competitors, meaning that I was snatched from the road. According to him, I also have an English accent.

Sherlock must be at least five years younger than me. He shouldn’t even remember anything pre-dust but he knew more about what life was like back then than me.

“You reached Serbia alone. Quite a feat.” He complimented.

“Thanks,” I answered. “What’s Serbia?”

“Never mind.”

The three women in the back were all personal Maids for the Masters. They gave their body up for them and if they got lucky, they bred for them too. The youngest girl was Molly. She and the other Maid called Mary belonged to the high Master, Moriarty. The last one with sleek cat eyes was called Irene and she was Sherlock’s. I asked if he’s ever employed her service. Sherlock shook his head.

“Not my area.”

“Then why did you bring them along? You will anger the high Master and the Lords if you took them away.”

Sherlock let out a sigh and tapped his long fingers against the steering wheel.

“There _are_ no Lords. I’m taking them back home.”

“Home, you mean England?”

“Yes. My brother leads the clan there.”

“But…”

“Killing and fucking each other to ravage for bad food? Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life?” Sherlock spat. I shut my mouth.

“We have a few hours’ head start before Moriarty finds out about the missing Maids. Which is where you come in. I’ve seen you fight before. You have strong survival instincts. You’re born pre-dust and have high moral principles. You were a free floater. The road ahead will be dangerous with smugglers and clans. We will be under pursuit as well. Can I put my faith in you to be resourceful?”

I nodded.

“Good. We drive as far as we can and take a ferry to England.”

“The ferry’s still working?” I asked and remembered the trip I took decades ago with my family to escape the dust.

“As long as my brother is there, yes.”

…

As dawn approached, the scenery ahead became more visible. I was surprised at how much the world could change in three years. It was an utterly desolate flat land with sparse trees and an enormous amount of crumbling buildings. When I was a free floater, there used to be some kind of a road visible but now it was a complete wild land.

There was a vague cluster of slightly taller buildings up ahead.

“What’s that?” I asked.

 “Our partner.”

The cluster of buildings turned out be a rather large town surrounding a small marshland. According to Sherlock, they were an important trading partner of Moriarty’s clan. Sherlock was the main correspondent between the two. A sun tanned man with alert eyes and graying hair came to greet us at the entrance gateway. I surmised that he must be the clan leader.

Sherlock stepped out of the van with his hands raised up to the Lords. The grey haired man ran up to him and embraced him. Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable. The three Maids and I observed silently from the car as Sherlock and the clan leader exchanged a few words.

We were given refuge in their town while the sun was up.

The marshland Mites shared us some moss to eat. It was tasteless and had a strange texture but a lovely change from the gunk I had been eating for the past 3 years.

After eating, Sherlock raised his hood, wrapped his scarf around his face and reclined his seat.

“Sleep, Lestrade will keep watch.” He ordered gruffly to everyone else.

I slipped into a deep sleep immediately.

…

I dreamed of red double decker buses and warm food. I dreamed of TV jingles and school. I dreamed of Harry and when I got separated from her. She screamed and reached out to me as I was dragged away by the smugglers.

I was woken from my sleep by a high pitched scream far more real than that of Harry’s.

Sherlock loaded a gun and shoved it at me.

“You know how to use it?”

I nodded.

“Good, then cover me, we’re getting out of here.”

People were running around. Dusk was approaching. I heard several gunshots from behind us. Sherlock revved up the van and floored it.

I told the women to lower their heads and climbed to the very back seat. Men in motorbikes were in pursuit. They all had another person sitting in the back with a gun in their hand, shooting roughly at our direction.

I slid open the side window and leaned my head out. Bullets zoomed past me. I ducked my head in.

“The window’s bullet proof.” Mary exclaimed.

Irene peaked out from over the seat.

“They’re gaining on to us.” Irene warned. A motorbike was advancing steadily towards us. I flicked the safety off the gun.

“This is the fastest I can go.” Sherlock said through his clenched teeth. I tried peeking my head out of the window again and taking an aim but the angle was wrong. I fired anyway. As expected, it missed.

“Careful, we only have a limited amount of bullets!” Sherlock shouted.

“Turn the car to the right!” I shouted back.

“What?”

“He needs to have a clear shot.” Molly elaborated. Sherlock looked at me through the back mirror.

“Three seconds is all I need.” Sherlock nodded and pulled the wheel to the right. I leaned outwards and pulled the trigger twice. The car swerved back straight before I could see if I had missed.

“One down,” Mary called out. I smiled. There were three more motorcycles. “Come here, John,” Mary beckoned me over to the window on the other side of the vehicle. I opened the window. I had a clear shot on one driver from here. I leaned my head out but before I could aim, a different motorbike suddenly zoomed out from out of my eyesight. The barrel of the gun was directed right at me.

There was a crack.

“Two down,” Mary called out again.  The driver and the gunman tumbled into the ground. I looked up.  

Sherlock had one hand on the steering wheel and his other hand stretched out from the window with a gun. He winked at me and turned back to his wheel.

Without saying thanks, I quickly took aim of the other motorcyclist.

“Three down,” We rolled up the window. The last motorcyclist was missing.  
Suddenly, there was a loud thud from the back of the van. Molly and Irene let out an involuntary scream. One of the pursuer had latched onto the back of the van and was punching at the half-shattered back window.

I growled and reached for the assist handles on either side of the van. I jumped up and lifted my feet and rammed it hard into the back window. After the fourth try, it popped out and with it, the pursuer lost balance and fell. The motorcycle collided with the falling man and the two became a crumple of metal and flesh.

“Good work, John.” Sherlock said. He probably thought I couldn’t see it but I noticed through the reflection on the back mirror that he was smiling.

…

We drove for two days straight before coming to a halt to top up the petrol tank.

“I’ve been smuggling these from the clan over the years.” Sherlock explained as everyone helped unload a huge tank. “And the lot that was short, I made up for with my own mix.”

“You can make gasoline?” Molly asked.

“Over time. If you know your chemistry, yes.” Sherlock said.  

Sherlock knew many things. As we camped outside of the car one night, he pointed at the stars and told us which way was north. He said he could tell roughly which part of the world they were in by observing the trajectory of the stars. We were somewhere around a place that used to be called Slovakia or Slovak Republic, it seems.

He also explained to us what a republic was and how it was different from the clan system. And democracy and freedom, and how all that disappeared with the dust.

“The dust set us back by several hundred years.” Sherlock muttered.

We took turns sleeping. Two of us stayed up at a time.

The first run was with Irene. She told me how she was born and raised in the clan. She was one of the luckier ones since people treated her gently compared to the other Maids. Probably because she didn’t mind the psychical services. However, she never managed to bear a child and was presented to Sherlock as a gift. He never showed any physical interest to her. Instead, he spoke to her a lot. Most of it she didn’t understand, but she started to catch a few things. Sherlock sparked curiosity inside her and she gradually began dreaming of going out into the free lands and eventually reach England.

The second run was with Sherlock. He chose his Master name after his favorite painting done by a man called Turner.  I asked him why he knew all these things. He tapped his head and said,

“I read them.”

But apparently, there are some things that can’t be learned through old books. He asked me what England smelled like before the dust. I told him I forgot. In return, I asked him how he became separated from his brother but Sherlock’s expression suddenly clouded and he became awfully quiet.

…

Sherlock ate little. He slept little. He won’t let me take the wheel. I don’t know what’s driving him to be like this.

“Do you think the clan’s still coming after us?”

“I doubt it. We’re in the Hostile Front now.”

“What’s that?”

“Means that there is danger everywhere.” I looked around. It was still the usual scenery with wreck and boulders. The only change was that the horizon, which have become slightly more mountainous and the trees thicker.

We nearly lost it one day when we found a small stream running among the shaded area of the wilderness. We stripped and splashed the freshwater against our grimy skin. I’ve only been allowed to shower once in every two months when I was a Competitor. No matter how much blood I had on me, I wasn’t allowed to come anywhere close to their fresh water.  
The Masters were able to bathe once a week, the Maids every day.

The last time I washed myself like this out in the open was more than three years ago when I was  a free floater and even then, you could only come across fresh water maybe once in several weeks.

Sherlock was the only person fully dressed and watched us silently from a distance. I noticed him eyeing my shoulder wound.

“What did that to you?” Mary asked.

“Smugglers. They shot me when I tried to run away.”

Sherlock made fire while we dunked our grimy clothing into the water and scrubbed. We opened the doors of the van and hung our wet clothing there to dry. We all sat naked in front of the warmth of the fire. It was only then that Sherlock disappeared down to the stream to have his own wash.

I watched curiously as Sherlock took off his scarf and black hooded cloak. He wore a plain shirt underneath with black trousers and boots. . Although he was a bit smudged from the sand and dust, I could tell how fair and smooth his skin was.  His frame was slender although his limbs were toned with lean muscles. When he took off his top, I saw multiple long scars lashed across his back.

Molly noticed what I was looking at and shook her head sadly.

“Moriarty used to beat us when we were younger, but he was especially rough on Sherlock.”

“Maids can’t be scarred or our price will drop by half.” Irene added. “But Sherlock can’t breed anyway.”

Now I think I know why he brought these Maids with him.

Sherlock did not wash his clothing. He said someone had to be fully dressed. He told the rest of us to sleep in the comforts of the van while he kept watch over night. We left the doors open because the clothing were still drying. It took a while for me to fall asleep. I could see Sherlock’s back from the agape door frame. I felt safe.

…

Hostile Front didn’t seem very hostile. Sherlock knew the area very well. We encountered several free floaters who were willing to trade with us. We had no trouble negotiating. Sherlock spoke all kinds of languages. We gave them the fresh water which we topped up at the stream. They gave us food. One of them had two tinned beans from 20 years ago.

We shared it between the five of us. It was the best thing I had in decades. Sherlock asked me whether it reminded me of pre-dust England. I told him I forgot. He asked me if I used to eat beans on toast. I told him yes. Sherlock decided to keep the empty tin. He propped it on top of the dash board and smiled to himself.

We drove some more and Sherlock declared that we were somewhere around a place that used to be called Czech Republic or maybe even Austria. I think I remember hearing that word in the Old World.

“You ought to know. Vienna was a home for classical music.” Sherlock said.

“Do you like classical music?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I never listened to them. Have you?” Sherlock shrugged back.

“Yeah, I used to fall asleep.”

“Dull.”

“Yeah…”

...

After several days of rigorous driving through unstable surface, one of our tires flattened. Molly and Sherlock worked at removing the damaged tire while Irene, Mary, and I went out on a search for an abandoned vehicle or spare tire. I doubt there were any. Even when I was a free floater, it was hard to come across a car. Harry and I eventually had to abandon our vehicle because of a flat tire.

Sherlock kept a gun and I held on to the other one but we didn’t dare go off too far in case we got lost. The building in this town were preserved better than the rest of the area we passed by. Some still had unbroken windows.

We spotted a fairly erect building not far off. The ground had sunk and the foundation was tilted but there were all four sides of a wall, a proper roof and only one window was broken. It must have been a bank or a city hall of some kind.

“Maybe we can camp in there for a while if we decide to abandon the car.” Mary suggested.

The sun was hanging low so we decided to retreat back to the van and tell them the unfortunate news.

Sherlock was lying on the ground face up. Molly was nuzzled comfortably next to him. Sherlock seemed incredibly bored.

“I suppose you didn’t find anything then?” He asked as he sat up and coughed briefly. He plucked his scarf to cover his nose and mouth. I shook my head.

“No big deal, we can continue the search tomorrow.” Sherlock shrugged. I opened my mouth to explain the building we found when all of the sudden, several gun shots erupted.

We instantly dived to the ground for cover. 

There was a shout and another gun shot, a gasp, a thump and Irene’s face was in front of me, face blank.

“You shot a bitch, you idiot! I told you not to. She was fair, don’t you know how much we could have sold her for?” A crude, rough voice came from the other side of the van. Irene’s face stared at me. I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Up on your knees, come on!” Something hard jabbed at my back. I slowly pushed myself up to my knees.

“I said up!” Someone else barked and there was a dull thud as Sherlock was shoved against the van. “Yep, that’s him innit? Dark, curly hair, pale eyes…with three women. What about him?”

“Don’t know.” Said the rough voice right behind me. “Didn’t mention there’ll be another one.”

“Well we can sell him for ourselves then, eh?” I realized that there were four of us and only two of them. Sherlock and I had a gun. I needed to lash out before they searched us. I could see from the corner of my eyes that they had a pickup truck parked not too far away. I glanced sideways at Sherlock. He seemed to have read my mind.

All of the sudden, Molly wailed, crumbled to the floor. I took advantage over this. I leaped up to my feet and grasped the barrel of the shot gun my assaulter had leveled at my back. I spun around and twisted the gun point toward the direction of the other man. There was a yelp and the younger assaulter who had been marking Sherlock was blown off his feet.

Sherlock and Mary tackled my assaulter while I wrestled over the rifle with him.  
Meanwhile, Molly scrambled at the fallen man’s hand gun and snatched it out of his reach. The younger assaulter was bleeding profusely from his leg and howling in pain.Mary went for the man’s knees. Sherlock pounced on his upper body and slammed him to the ground. The rifle escaped the man’s grip and fell firmly into mine. I spun it around clumsily and leveled it towards the assaulter.Mary yelped as she was kicked in the shoulder. Sherlock was trying to secure a hold on the writhing figure beneath him. I couldn’t shoot for I feared it would hit Sherlock.

“You need to clear the way,” I called but the wrestle and the shouting between the two men was too intense for them to register my warning. I decided to stalk up to the man and jut the barrel of the gun right under the man’s chin. The man froze. Sherlock was panting hard but he leaned back and slid away from the man. Mary grabbed hold of his shoulder in support. Molly hovered over the man and aimed her gun too.

“One more move and I blow your brains out.” I growled but the man ignored my warning and tried to lash out so I pulled the trigger anyway. There was an ugly smacking noise as I blew half of our assaulter’s face off along with his brains.I snapped the empty pellets out of the rifle and turned around. Sherlock smiled up at me proudly, but before I could smile back, I noticed something moving behind Mary. I yelled, Molly swung the gun out to shoot.

The other younger man with the bloody leg had managed to crawl up on us with an army knife in his hand. He thrust it above Mary’s head and swung down for her neck. Sherlock reacted swiftly and pushed Mary to the ground and wrapped his body over her protectively.  

There was a painful shout from Sherlock as the knife dug itself into his lower left abdomen. The man pulled the knife out and attempted for another swing.  Molly pulled the trigger three times. Blood spurt from the attacker’s head and he fell on his back with a pathetic flop.

“John,” Mary called out my name sharply and roused me back from shock. I looked back towards her to find Sherlock lying on the ground, his chest heaving up and down. Immediately, I knelt down beside him. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut. The dark fabric of his shirt glinted with wetness. I picked the army knife up and tore through Sherlock’s shirt. Blood was flowing out like a flooded river. Mary immediately turned to the younger man’s dead body and ripped some fabric from his clothes. She rolled it up into a large ball and pressed it against the wound.

“What do I do?” I asked Sherlock but he merely opened his eyes a crack and licked his lips.

“Blood,” he finally murmured and pointed roughly at the direction of Irene.

Something clicked inside my head. Molly was rummaging the assaulter’s truck. She came dashing back with a small box.

“Sewing kit!” She said and started fumbling with a string and needle. 

Mary was still trying to staunch the blood flow. I remembered when I was shot. The snatchers always had a medical kit in case their stock came into physical harm. I dashed to back to the pickup truck and checked under their seats. As expected, I found a faded red box. I grabbed the whole thing and ran back to Sherlock. I opened the box beside him and rummaged through. I found what I was looking for. Transfusion line. I tried to remember what they did to me when I was shot.  
I dragged Irene’s body closer to Sherlock and stretched her arms out.

Sherlock had closed his eyes and was barely breathing. Molly and Mary were speaking to him and tapping his clammy cheek. I examined Sherlock’s arm and jabbed one side of the line into what looked like a vein and the other into Irene’s. Blood drizzled out into the tube but stopped halfway through. I hooked my arms under Irene and lifted her up. The red line zoomed passed and connected completely.

 Mary let go of the wound and Molly huddled over to sew the punctured skin. It was fortunate that Sherlock was completely out of it. I hoped to all Lords he woke up though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I describe Sherlock's wardrobe as "cloak" but I imagine something more like these:  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/20/e4/ae/20e4ae72182fd4df8149659a8a85f753.jpg  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/58/4d/1e/584d1e5573288c3e0f180ff67d1b189b.jpg
> 
> And his scarf like this:  
> http://www.kiss-and-tell.nl/shop/peace-scarf-black-large/
> 
> -I am aware of a potential flaw in the plot in the blood transfusion scene.  
> John has made a risky decision using Irene's blood for Sherlock, but let's just say that Sherlock knew that they both had the same blood type. And John was desperate...
> 
> -I tried to draw parallels to the show.  
> John has a limp and a gunshot wound in the shoulder.  
> Molly shows mild interest in chemistry  
> Sherlock gets injured to protect -or because of- Mary.  
> John acts as a medic.  
> ...and so on. I hope you caught all of them! ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dust took over and all of the sudden, there was nothing.  
> In a post-apocalyptic society where starvation reek and people enslaved, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle to make their way home to England.  
> They should not have held hope.  
> ...  
> The second half of the journey becomes more painful.

We raided anything of use from the pickup truck. We gained some ammunition for the rifle, the medical box, and several rags of clothing that smelled foul but were in good shape, food, water, and gasoline. Oh, and we also took all of the tires.

We later on unhooked the infusion tubes and carefully moved Sherlock into the back of the van where he could lie down across the seats. His legs were too long so we bent it over to the side so that he looked like he was half sitting, half lying down.

Molly sat on the row in front and kept an eye on him. Sherlock was still pale and sweating but at least he was breathing.

We couldn’t bury Irene since we had no tool to dig up the hard gravel so we just left her where she was.

I took the driver’s seat. Mary sat beside me. As we started the engine, I realized I didn’t know which way to go.

“That way,” Mary pointed to what seemed like a random point in the horizon. “Sherlock taught us how to read stars. We’ve been chasing that star the whole time.”

I decided to trust her word.

…

I couldn’t stop praying to the Lords for Sherlock to wake up. It was awfully scary driving in silence. We all missed his tales about England and the Old World. I missed his low voice. All I could hear from the back of the car was Sherlock’s labored wheezing and soft murmurs from Molly as she wiped Sherlock’s sweat from his face.

Three days later, finally Sherlock opened his eyes and we stopped the van. I climbed into the back of the vehicle. Sherlock’s pale eyes slowly regained focus and gazed into mine. A weak smile broke onto his face.

“I dreamt about us living together in the Old World.” He croaked. I laughed. I had tears in my eyes.

Sherlock remained in the back seat. We fed him water and some bread, which he merely nibbled around the edge. He gazed out the window and examined the stars.

Mary asked him if we were going the right direction.

“I taught you well.” He answered and fell back to sleep.

Five days later, Sherlock recovered to the point where he could sit up. His face had more color and his eyes regained its sharpness. He seemed to have picked up some kind of infection though. He occasionally had fits of wet wheezing cough that threatened to break the suture on his abdomen.

“It’ll pass,” Sherlock said.

“Tell me more about your dream.” Molly asked.

Sherlock told us that he was a detective in his dream. Detectives fought bad people called criminals. Criminals were people like smugglers and snatchers. There were rules in the Old World and if you broke the rules, you were a bad person.

 I was a doctor and a soldier. We worked together. Molly helped out occasionally and Mary was a fighter and a friend. We all lived in London.

“And Irene was…” Sherlock’s voiced trailed away remembering that she was dead. “Well, Irene was Irene.” Sher shrugged and coughed.

By the time we reached a place which Sherlock called France, he was able to stand up and walk. Molly managed to pull the sewing string out too. He suggested his should drive, but I refused. He said he should at least sit beside me so that he could guide me.

“We have to go up north now.” He said. “To the coast.”

Marry and Sherlock switched seats.

France was a strange place. It was more humid than the other areas we’ve traveled through. I could see birds up in the sky and my mouth watered.

“Gulls,” Sherlock muttered. “We must be getting close to the sea.”

Sherlock said he planned this trip off his distant memory of maps and real life experience. He admitted he wasn’t sure where the ferry port was but he was sure we’d hit it as long as we drive along the coast line.

One day, we came to a high cliff overlooking the sea. I stood right at the edge of the cliff and gazed at the flat horizon. It was vast, dark and the salty smell reminded me of the day my family fled England. I wondered why we even tried to escape England in the first place. It’s much calmer here.

Molly and Mary were sitting against the van, nibbling on bread. Sherlock sat down beside me and placed his hands under his chin like he usually did when he was thinking hard.

“Do you think your brother is still alive?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “And yours?”

“Probably dead.” I answered back. Harry was strong, yes, but near the end, her feisty spirit was ebbing away and I was the one taking the lead. Only the Lords know what happened to her after they took me away.

“How did get separated from your brother?” I asked again.

“He sold me.” Sherlock answered flatly and raised his scarf up to his nose. I noticed that he did that more often recently.

…

I enjoyed driving along the coast. The sea breeze that flowed in through the back broken window was soothing and cool. Sherlock collected some sea water in his bean tin and told us not to touch it for the next few days.

He later on showed us the white crusty bits at the bottom of the tin. He told us it was salt. We put some on our food. All the sudden, everything tasted much more pleasant.

We were down to only a liter of petrol when we finally encountered a floater. He was on a motorbike with a helmet. We waved at him and stopped the van. Sherlock lowered his scarf from his face and eased himself out of the car. Then, he raised his hands up to the Lords. I did the same.

The man took off his helmet. Sherlock froze at the spot.

“Sherlock?” the man said with an astounded look on his face.

“Stamford?” Sherlock breathed and the two ran towards each other and locked into a hard embrace.

It turned out Mike Stamford was Sherlock’s old clan member.

“Is my brother here?” Sherlock asked excitedly. Mike nodded and told us to follow him with our van.

We arrived at an open space on the sea side with flat cement surface with several wretched buildings and huts. We parked our van in a hidden spot behind an especially large building that must have been an aquarium. Mike opened the door to the aquarium and the five of us padded through the dark building. The water tanks were empty and replaced by rubble and void. Some of the glass were shattered. We were guided to the underground floor area.

I was surprised by the size of it. It was like a city built under the earth. Countless seaside Mites walked back and forth. They were well-dressed than us and cleaner too.

“We tied the Parisian underground together with the Channel Tunnel.” Mike explained. Sherlock frowned.

“I thought the Channel Tunnel was blocked off by rogues.”

“They abandoned it as soon as they realized no one was going to England anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock inquired. Mike did not answer.

We walked down further under where there were several rooms with shabby doors. It was an old underground staff room. Mike knocked. The door opened and there stood a young, elegant looking woman with a plain but cleanly, dark outfit. She blinked several times at the unexpected company. Recognizing Mike, she made way for us to pass through the door.

“I’ve got someone who wants to see you, Mycroft.” Mike spoke softly to a figure sitting at the other end of the room. He seemed to be writing something.

“I’m not expecting anyone today-” Said a mellow voice but halted as he looked up. The man shot up to his feet and the chair clattered. He was tall, slender and dressed in the cleanest suit I have ever seen in decades. The man advanced towards us urgently. Sherlock stepped forward.

“No it can’t be,” said the man with a tremor in his voice. Sherlock quickened his pace toward him. The man opened his arms wide for an embrace but Sherlock swung his arm back and delivered a powerful punch to the man’s face. The woman who answered the door gasped. The man rubbed his jaw and straightened himself up. Sherlock turned to us.

“Everyone, this is my brother, Mycroft.”

…

After a short introduction to each other, Mycroft asked to speak to his brother in private.  Mike and the woman showed us to the room next door and sat us down on comfortable, soft couches. Molly sniffed the fabric.

“It’s real skin.”

The wall was thin and we could hear lots of shouting from next door. I plucked at my tattered clothing out of nervousness. Everything felt so strange here. It was so organized and _civilized_. It brought back something in me that I thought was long dead. I turned to Mary and Molly who were sitting across from me.

“Has Sherlock ever mentioned about his brother before?”

“A few times” Molly replied. “Sherlock used to say he will kill his brother first thing if he makes it to England.”

Was this all just a personal vendetta in the end? After several more sessions of inaudible shouting, the door opened to reveal Mycroft and Sherlock.

Mycroft gave us the tour around the underworld. His clan Mites were not called Mites. Neither Mycroft nor Mike were Masters. No such thing existed in this clan. Everyone was equal and everyone shared with each other. They mostly fed on dried fish.

“You can eat fish?” Mary asked suspiciously. Mycroft chuckled and told us of course. They are a rarity nowadays but for some reason, there were lots around this area.

“Is that why you all moved out from England?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft’s expression darkened all of the sudden.

“There was a plague on that island, twenty years ago. More than half of the population perished within a month. The rest of us came here. No one lives there now.”

“What?” Sherlock stopped walking.

“I was one of the first to realize what was happening. I thought you’d have a better chance of survival outside. I paid the smugglers to help you escape to the Continent. I’m very sorry, Sherlock. For everything I’ve caused you.”

Sherlock clenched his hands into a fist and stared at Mycroft in disbelief.

“We can’t go back then?”

“I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”

Without a word, Sherlock walked away.

We were given individual rooms with comfortable bunk beds but I didn’t want to sleep alone after spending so long in isolation in the den. I went to search for Sherlock. I found him above ground, staring out at the sea.

“Sherlock?”

“We were so close.” He said in a low hush.

“We can live here instead.” I offered. “There’s plenty of food. Beds too. Everyone seems nice. It feels a bit like the Old World here.”

“What do you know about Old World? You don’t remember a damn thing.” Sherlock hissed at me. I think I saw tears glinting in his eyes. I didn’t reply.

“My home is gone.”

“We can always make a new one.” Sherlock turned away from me. We stood there like that for a while, watching the sun set. When it got dark, I said to him,

“I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Me neither.” He replied.

…

It took a while but Sherlock eventually came to terms with living underground. The weather here was cooler than out east, and the temperature began to drop. Mycroft told me that there is the dry season and the cold season every year here.

We spent a lot of first few days venturing around the immense underground network. Sherlock and Mary were good with mental maps and grasped the general geography quickly. Molly and I, on the other hand, struggled.

The people taught Mary and Molly how to read and write. They gave us better clothing. Some seemed almost unused from pre-dust. I got a pair of jeans and a sweater. Mycroft told us that if we wanted anything more than the basics, we had to work for it. There were several jobs. Some people fished. Others traded. Some weaved and others scavenged for other bits and pieces that might come into use. There was a proper society underground.

“It took a while to get to this point,” Mike explained. “But Mycroft managed to keep us sane.”

As I grew more accustom to the life underground, it became more painful for me to remember the days in Moriarty’s clan. Now that I belonged in a world of order and rationality, the killings I’ve done for the Lords came to haunt me.

Sherlock, Mary, and Molly seemed to be going through the same problem but it was Sherlock who had the worst toll. Despite the raise in the quality of food, he ate less. Sometimes, I heard a fit of wheezing cough from his room at night. He said it would pass but it seemed to worsen. For this, he rarely slept soundly. His skin was always clammy despite the regular wash we had from the fresh water dug up from underground.

Mycroft asked Sherlock to assist him but he declined and assumed the task of a trader. He would drive off in the van and come back with various goods. Every time he went, he came back weaker than before. At first I thought it was the wound but I spied on him one day during his wash and the scar looked fine.

I handled mostly physical tasks. I loaded and unloaded goods, and maintained the underground facility. I waited outside every afternoon for Sherlock’s return to unload his goods.

One day, he came home looking extremely ill. He stumbled out of the van and heaved. I reached out to support him but he sunk to the ground on his hands and knees. He spat out flecks of blood. His arm gave in and he collapsed.

I somehow carried him into his bed with help from Mary. I told Molly to call Mycroft. He would know what to do. Mycroft knew lots of things, just like his brother.Sherlock’s body was burning up. Mary got some fresh water and a towel to cool him down. All I could do was kneel beside him and watch. I didn’t pray to the Lords this time because I didn’t believe in them anymore.

Mycroft came and watched his brother suffer. I asked him for guidance but he merely shook his head and told me there was nothing I could do. Then, he left the room. I was angry but then Molly told me he was right.

“Sherlock told me he was dying.” She said. Molly and Mary stayed for a while but I told them to go back to their room and rest. I didn’t want to believe what Molly told me.

Sherlock was unconscious throughout the night. I had fallen asleep on the floor beside him and was woken up by a weak cough. I sat up and found Sherlock looking at me with a sad smile on his face.

“I need to go to England.” He croaked. I nodded.

…

We spoke to Mycroft about the plan. It was simple.  
Sherlock would take the smaller ferry boat and cross the English Channel. Mycroft said no to this.

“He can’t possibly travel alone in this state.”

“Who said he’s going alone?” I asked. Sherlock looked at me, suprised.

“There is a possibility you could die there as well, John.” Mycroft tried to reason with me.

“We’ll go to London together. We can load the van into the ferry as well. I can bring it back.”

“If you survive.”

“The plague was twenty years ago.”

Mycroft agreed in the end but made me promise not to come back if I contracted the plague. Then, he told me to wait outside while he had a word with Sherlock. I did as I was told and waited for a long time. When Sherlock finally emerged, he told me to go inside instead. 

“My brother will never forgive me for what I have done to him. You two shared a terrible ordeal that I can never fathom. He feels more kinship to you than his actual brother. It is only appropriate for you to accompany him.” He pulled out an envelope and gave it to me. “You can read, yes?”

I nodded.

“Sherlock wants you to open this after his death.”

…

I was briefly taught how to operate the ship, but it was all a blur. Sherlock promised me that he will help me out.

Quite a bit of people came outside to see us off. Mary and Molly hugged Sherlock tightly with tears in their eyes. They whispered thank yous to him. Sherlock only answered back with a small smile and a sad look in his eyes. They hugged me too and told me to come back alive. They didn't say that to Sherlock though.

I held on to Sherlock’s shoulder and helped him board the vehicle. I sat him down next to me and started the engine. I asked him if he was ready. He nodded, pulled his scarf up to his nose, and closed his eyes.

We rode silently under the star light. It reminded me of the many nights we spent in the van as we crossed the Continent. Sherlock was not as talkative so I spoke instead. He had his eyes closed so I had no idea if he was listening or not but I spoke anyway.

“You asked me a lot of questions about the Old World and I couldn’t answer most of it. I’m starting to remember some though. I remember a bit of London. Dad used to drive us there in the weekends. There was this humongous museum with mummies and all that. It was called the British Museum, I think. You’ll love it. It was your kind of thing. Lots of history. Lots of stories…”

“There’s this one TV jingle that I can’t seem to forget. It goes like this” I hummed the tune that had been haunting my head for decades. “I can’t even remember what it was for.” Sherlock let out a weak chuckle and I was reassured to know that he was listening.

“We were one of the earlier ones to leave. My parents thought the dust wouldn’t be that bad in the Continent. We took a ferry like this one and crossed.” I closed my eyes and smelled the air. “We lived in this small apartment for a while but my dad disappeared one day. Mum tried to feed us but food was already scarce then and we couldn’t afford anything. Raids and riots happened. We decided to run. ‘State of Emergency’, I heard that word a lot near the beginning. But when things become messy and stay messy, there is no emergency to it anymore…”

I didn’t talk about what happened after that. I didn’t want to dwell on it. Not now.

“Spaghetti,” Sherlock suddenly muttered.

“Sorry?”

“That TV jingle, it’s for spaghetti. I vaguely remember seeing it when I was very little.”

I laughed out loud. Of course.

“You know it too then?”

We both hummed the tune and laughed, but Sherlock’s chuckle broke into a fit of cough again. He bend over himself and hacked. I couldn’t do much except rub his back. Exhausted from the ordeal, he fell asleep almost immediately. I turned to the wheel and hummed the tune to myself.

I was bored with steering and was sitting on the floor, toying around the unopened envelop, wondering what was written in it when Sherlock stirred awake. I stored the envelope away as he sat up and looked at me. He was shivering.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m not sure.” He answered but his teeth were chattering. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. I stood up and fetched a blanket to cover him. I wrapped it around his shoulders. He told me to sit beside him. I did so. He rewrapped the blanket so that it consumed the both of us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked but he was already asleep again.

We arrived at the coast by dawn. The abandoned port was not hard to find. Sherlock’s navigation was spot on. We stared out the sea into the direction of where we came from before pulling the van out of the ferry. Sherlock blinked at the horizon and smiled to himself.

We drove for several hours in silence. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat with the window open, his eyes glued to the scenery that passed by. It felt strange being back in your homeland after so long. Strangely, I was not worried about the plague at all.

The roads were still there. We took the motorway towards London. I saw many building burnt, crumbled, shattered, and toppled but everything felt very nostalgic.

We reached the area that used to be King’s Cross Station. Sherlock staggered towards the remains of the station and placed a hand on the wall. We walked for a bit and came to the remains of the British Library. The library was burnt down but The Isaac Newton statue was still there and erect. Sherlock perched himself on top of one of the boulders and stared at the statue for what seemed like ages.

We drove to the Thames. Sherlock told me about Shakespeare and Globe Theater as we drove along the river but was disappointed to find it gone.

“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death” He muttered.

We stopped in front of Tate Modern, which was still relatively well-preserved. We went inside. There was nothing there. Just cement and lots of rubbish.

“It must have been used as a shelter near the end.” Sherlock observed as he kicked a ragged sleeping bag that was abandoned on the floor.

St.Paul’s Cathedral was also gone too. Completely. We found more buildings missing than remaining and I was afraid of continuing on for it differed greatly with Sherlock’s expectations.

We passed by Trafalgar Square but it was desolate and the remains of the National Gallery stood like a haunted skeleton at the heart of London. We went inside but all it remained were burnt ashes. Giving up hope on buildings, Sherlock requested to head up north to The Regent’s Park.

We were nearly there when Sherlock exclaimed and ordered to stop the car. He pointed to a distance, to a half crumbled flat. There was light from one of the windows. My heart raced.  
Baker Street was the name of the road. I hurried the van to the building and climbed out. Sherlock followed suit. We exchanged looks and nodded. I knocked on the door cautiously. After a few seconds of absolute silence, the door creaked open and out popped an elderly lady with a small smile.

We were both lost for words.

“Oh my, you look terrible! Come in, come in.” The lady invited us in. The flat was engulfed in warm candle lights and sweet aroma of tea.

“Let me get you two some warm cuppa.” She said as she sat us down in the kitchen. The inside of the flat seemed as if time had stopped since the dust. I reached down and brushed my fingertips against the carpet. Sherlock stared at the photographs handing on the wall.

The lady was called Mrs. Hudson. For some reason she survived the plague.

“I was prepared to die in my home but I seemed to have some sort of immunity.” She said with a shrug as she poured out some warm tea. She apologized for taking time to heat the water.  
  
“I have to use a camping stove these days.”

Sherlock sipped the tea and closed his eyes. His lips trembled as he set the cup down.

“Oh dear, did you not like it?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. They were a bit teary.

“It’s very lovely.” He croaked. I could tell that he was trying hard not to break down at the spot. She didn’t ask us what we were doing here or where we came from. She seemed happy to just have company.

“It’s a bit dingy in here but you can stay here as long as you want.” She offered. “I have a couple of things I need help moving around too.” She looked at me. Sherlock obviously did not seem fit to be doing heavy lifting.

“Sure, what kind of things?”

Mrs. Hudson led us to a different room. We could not believe our eyes when we peered in. The room was full of treasures. Paintings, pottery, cutlery, and copious amounts of books. Sherlock swayed on his feet so I supported his weight by wrapping my arm around him.

“May we?” He asked in a whisper.

“Of course.” She said cheerfully.

I helped him walk towards the paintings. They were in huge, elegant wooden frames with detailed carvings. Most of them were scenery paintings but some were portraits.

“I couldn’t let them burn in the National Gallery so I evacuated as much as I can to here.”

Sherlock let out a weak laugh as he stared at a painting.

“That’s The Fighting Temeraire.”

“Yes, my favorite.” Mrs. Hudson said with a dreamy smile. Sherlock turned his attention to the other corner of the room so I helped him limp across. He was heaving heavily but the light in his eyes showed intense fascination. He stretched his hand toward a violin on the table. He plucked a string and closed his eyes. He plucked a different string and smiled. Under the violin were a series of music sheet.  

“I wish I could read notes,” He murmured and gently traced the loops and the lines on the sheet.

After few more minutes of wandering around the room, Sherlock’s knees finally gave in and I had to carry him to a couch. As I placed Sherlock down, Mrs. Hudson gave me a worried look.  

I took her to a different room and explained to her the general situation; that he was dying and this was his farewell visit to his homeland and that her collection was probably the best thing that happened so far and could have excited him a bit too much.

She looked tearful and heartbroken by the time I finished.

“Stay here. Keep him here until the end.”

She gave us the spare bedroom. I unloaded the van and handed her everything we had brought. Food, water, and basic surviving tools.

I moved Sherlock from the couch to the bed. I don’t think he’s ever slept in a bed as comfortable as this. I lied down next to him and watched him breathe and drifted off to sleep as well.

…

The next two days seemed like a dream. Sherlock was in a great condition and was able to move up and about. The treasures in the room must have given him energy and adrenaline. He asked me to drive him to Primrose Hill. We invited Mrs. Hudson as well. It was a rather laborious trip for Sherlock to climb the hill so we dropped our things halfway up and picnicked there. There was little to no grass but the view was magnificent. The remains of the London Eye glinted in the sunlight.

Mrs. Hudson began weaving something. I hummed the TV jingle while Sherlock lay spread eagle on the ground and gazed up at the sky with a complacent smile. I wondered what he was thinking.

The second day, we took a trip to the British Museum. The building was half destroyed but the inside were vast and there were some historical artifacts lying around. Then, we stopped by a small, desolate movie theater. Most of the seats were still there. We sat there for a while and pretended there was something showing on screen.

“What’s your movie about?”

“Detectives and crime solving.”

I found Sherlock coughing in the bathroom that evening though. Dark blood spatters were painted in the sink. I wiped his lips and ushered him to bed. He insisted he wanted to see the painting and the violin again. He sat cross legged in front of The Fighting Temeraire and sipped on Mrs. Hudson’s tea for hours.

Mrs. Hudson asked me what it was like out there. I couldn’t describe it very well.

Sherlock’s adventures had a price. I woke up to the sound of someone vomiting. Sherlock was slouched over the bathroom sink again. Blood dribbled down his shirt. I helped him change and put him on the bed. His complexion was deathly pale. He muttered something at me before he closed his eyes. I think he said “lie next to me” but I can’t be sure.

He woke up some time later and coughed several times before he said to me,

“Why aren’t you next to me?”

I climbed onto the bed and tried to stop his shivers by wrapping myself around him.

“Is this good?”

He intertwined his fingers to mine and gripped it tightly.

“Yes, thank you.”

I woke up to find him completely still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -To clarify the timeline in the story, here are some details I had in mind while I wrote. 
> 
> I'm not really sure what the age difference between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in the canon, but the setting in this story is that Sherlock is at least 5 years younger than John. 
> 
> The dust happens when John is around 7. Sherlock, around 2. Mycroft, around 9.  
> John's family escapes to Spain the next year.  
> John and Harry are on their own 2 years later.  
> Sherlock and Mycroft also loses their parents. Mycroft takes care of Sherlock. (Among the chaos, Sherlock manages to teach himself through reading.)  
> Civilization collapses in John's early teens.  
> Mycroft assumes the role of clan leader at age 19. Sherlock is 12.  
> Sherlock is 16 when he is "sold" to the smugglers. The plague happens the same year.  
> Sherlock is bought into Moriarty's clan at age 17.  
> Sherlock undergoes various physical abuse but is appointed as Master at age 30.  
> John travels around with Harry from his teens until 3 years prior to when the story begins. 
> 
> Hopefully, this would explain why John does not remember most things before the dust, and lack any basic knowledge on geography.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dust took over and all of the sudden, there was nothing.  
> In a post-apocalyptic world where starvation reek and people enslaved, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle to make their way home to England.  
> They should not have held hope.  
> ...  
> John reads the last wishes of Sherlock Holmes.

I called his name and shook his shoulder. I didn’t want to check his pulse. I sobbed for some time while Mrs. Hudson comforted me. All I could do was kiss his forehead. It was the most intimate gesture I had ever done in my entire life. And then I opened the envelope which Sherlock had left for me.

_John,_

_This letter is to express my utmost gratitude, and to assure you that I have come in peace with my death quite some time ago. There is –was- no distress. I found out I was dying several years ago. My lungs were already in a state of significant decay when we met. I do not consider this as a tribulation of any kind, save for the impracticalities on my physical ability which increased with the progression of my illness._

_We live in a barbaric world. The violations and the brutish treatment has become nothing more than a shameless routine. I have spent so many years in a state of stupor. I was prepared to rot away to my deathbed. I always imagined myself drawing my last breath while he rutted into me. I was okay with that. I just wanted everything to end._

_Then you appeared on that pit one day. As I repeatedly watched you fight for survival, you gradually became very dear to me. All of the sudden, I didn’t want to rot away in that hell-hole any longer. How I met my end became a matter of utmost concern. I wanted to go home and die there. I prepared for an escape. It took me months. Every week I prayed for you. The thought of you dying in the pit was unbearable. My hopes grew every time you won. Three years is long, John. When the preparation was complete, I realized I could not leave without you. As selfish as I may sound, you have become my symbol of hope, the conductor of light, a special amulet to slow my oncoming death._

_My last wish is to be buried on this land, England, my home. And if possible, bring back the people to accompany me some day. Including my dear git of a brother, Mycroft. Look after him. Smart as he may be, he can make incredibly poor decisions some times. For the time being, Irene and I will entertain ourselves here._

_The magnificent journey we shared have come to an end, but do not consider this as the end of yours. Let it continue. Strive. Prosper. Do what you can. But then again, I guess you don’t need to be told this at all. Finally and most importantly, my dear John, thank you very much for making me alive gain._

_Sherlock Holmes_

We buried Sherlock at the very top of Primrose Hill.  
One day, I will climb up that hill again and he will be there waiting for me with open arms and a proud smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have just recently come to realize that I write an awful lot of depressing stories.  
> I wanted to get all slashy near the end but it got so morbid that anything further than a cuddle and a kiss seemed a bit out of place.  
> I hope you enjoyed this one though. Thank you for reading!


End file.
